Would You Like To Solve Crimes?
by Wackelda
Summary: She'd known. Well, perhaps not immediately, but still, by the end of that first day as his "assistant," Molly had realized it was supposed to have been a date. Sherlock's version of a date, anyway. Crime-solving, case-cracking, some off-hand flirtation, even an invite to share dinner together (however disguised as being owed favors by shop owners)...
1. Chapter 1

Author's Note: I've been a longtime fan of the Sherlolly fanfic community, simply adore much of the writing out there. This story was written more for my own sanity than anything else after bugging me for a long time (as I'm sure some of you can relate). That being said, this is the first time in over 15 years I've dusted off the fanfic authoring shelf of my brain, so it's been a bit terrifying. It's unbeta-ed and un-Brit-picked, so I apologize for any errors. There's a good chance Chapter 3 shouldn't be written the way it is, but I didn't really know how else to approach it effectively. Constructive criticism is welcome, I hope I didn't make these lovely people too OOC.

Disclaimers: I own nothing.

She'd known.

Well, perhaps not _immediately_ , but still, by the end of that first day as his "assistant," Molly had realized it was supposed to have been a date. Sherlock's version of a date, anyway. Crime-solving, case-cracking, some off-hand flirtation, even an invite to share dinner together (however disguised as being owed favors by shop owners)...

It was adorable.

He'd seemed nervous when she'd arrived, when he'd asked her to solve crimes with him, but chalked it up to her imagination. However, as the day wore on, not only had he taken to lightly flirting with her ( _that_ wasn't entirely new, the part where he wasn't trying to extort body parts from her was), he was actually...nice. To her. And to clients who'd genuinely been wronged. He'd even gone so far as complimenting her (or as close to one as he could get) when she'd voiced her doubt about providing adequate help as an assistant. He was still Sherlock, of course, eyes observantly darting, spouting rapid-fire deductions and cutting down those who deserved it. However, as they'd sifted through clients at Baker Street, his demeanor towards those particular ones was somehow softer, more understanding- a stark contrast to the exceptional bluntness John had reported in years past.

This extended to Molly, in a way, as it had turned out. No jabs, no rude comments if she didn't catch on as quickly. There had been a moment at the train client's flat when she'd gotten swept up in the moment, distracted, and caught the flicker of annoyance as Sherlock pressed on questioning the man. Embarrassment had flooded her; she'd simply let herself get lost in the day at a rather inopportune time. Figuring out the puzzles side by side, the familiarity of playful rapport, seeing the man she'd supposedly gotten over in his element, it was all so... _fun_.

When they'd departed and he'd extended the invite for chips, she knew she had to ask. Because as much fun as it was, it had all come just a bit too late. The revelation of her importance to him had thrilled and pained her all at once, his acknowledgement that she couldn't do this again confirming her date suspicions and doubling that stab of regret. He'd been surprisingly kind enough to wish her happiness, even as she prattled on about her fiancé, scrambling to recall all of the "right" reasons she was with him, all the reasons she should be happy.

In that moment, in that hallway, something wonderful and immense and rueful had passed between them. For a few seconds, they had been untouched by the outside world and she'd caught the look on his face. _Oh God, he's going to kiss me_ , she'd thought. _Please do. Please don't._ The inner argument had waged quickly, one side wanting to finally experience something she'd desired for so long, and one side reminding her she was engaged and needed to do the right thing for Tom's sake. It had done nothing to allay her racing heart and rapid breathing when she found tenderness and regret in his eyes, a small smile gracing him as he leaned toward her. She was fairly certain he could read all of this on her and yet was powerless to stop it.

And even though it had only been a kiss on the cheek, it had felt like fire. Enough to sear itself into her memory beside the Christmas one, and enough to begin poking holes in her engagement. Because even though the "right" thing had happened, she'd realized with some shame that she'd been disappointed it had.

She initially had attempted brushing those thoughts aside, but as the months had worn on after Sherlock's return, those thoughts became obnoxiously louder and more difficult to ignore (perhaps because they frequently made themselves known in his voice). There were a few instances where he had used her flat as a bolt hole (only when Tom wasn't there, of course) and after some tea and pleasantries, he'd holed up in her room while she'd make up the spare for herself that night. He didn't come into the lab as often as she'd have expected him to (hoped to, she wouldn't admit), but they had returned to something resembling their old morgue and lab routine, working together, still fetching him coffee…just with the marked addition of respect that came with recognition of truly being equals after what she'd done for him. On the rare occasions they were alone in the lab, that same mild gentleness from that day of crime solving would surface. She'd been afraid to call his tone affectionate, even in her head, for fear it was a Pandora's box she'd be unable to shut.

The Watson wedding had been the beginning of the end. Sherlock's best man speech was something she had been fretting over for a time, and had expressed as much to those in their small circle. While he had certainly given her some reason to have been worried as he had begun speaking, by the end, he had taken her breath away. The way he had illustrated his friendship with John Watson, the openness with which he had acknowledged the difficulty of himself, and the sincerity of his happiness for his friend had touched her. Everything she had been shoving under a rug suddenly became harshly exposed to the light of day-she still loved him. When she had been able to take a step back from it all later, she had seen how she'd mistreated Tom, hand stabbing aside. She'd been overly affectionate for pictures that day, but it had been symptomatic of something else that she'd been ignoring. She'd been trying to convince herself of her own happiness, merely acting out a role in her own life while woefully ignoring the reality that this habit traced back to Sherlock's return from the dead. After that, she'd finally been honest with herself that he was an attempt at a shoddy copy and how incredibly unfair that was to someone who had been nothing but sweet, if boring, to her for so long.

Those realizations had been what led to her tearfully giving Tom back the ring that night. She'd apologized for everything. She'd tried to impress upon him that it wasn't for not loving him, she did, but that he deserved someone who wasn't also _in_ love with someone else. To Tom's credit, he had taken it about as well as she could have hoped. While he had been equally tearful, he had understood, and revealed that he had suspected for a time, too. He had left her with a kiss on her forehead, and she had managed to hold back the majority of her sobbing until she'd gone to shower.

And then Sherlock had disappeared from her life for a month. And had then acquired a fake girlfriend. And had then gotten high. And had then gotten shot. And had then disappeared again. And had then at least begun his recovery, but not without John having moved back into Baker Street after what must have been a spectacularly awful domestic if the doctor's overall demeanor and abrupt change in residence were any indication. The list had made her absolutely furious with him, even if she was relieved that he'd come out the other side of it. She'd wanted to slap him all over again, scream her frustration at him, convince him that he was loved and to stop destroying himself and the people around him.

She'd gone to Baker Street to check in on him shortly after he'd been discharged anyway. She hadn't been to see him in hospital, she'd still been too infuriated and she would not put that on him while he was only beginning to mend. John had kept her in the loop regarding his recovery and discharge, so if he was well enough to be home, she'd reasoned it was perhaps safe to see him and risk that he'd know in an instant how she felt. It had been a mistake.

Mrs. Hudson had waved her up the stairs, noting John was out and she hadn't checked on Sherlock for a bit anyhow. Molly had been keeping a tight lid on her anger the last few months, and had been afraid that facing the man at the center of it would unleash it. When she'd stepped inside the flat, though, she could hardly believe it was the consulting detective she was seeing. He'd been paler than usual, sallow-featured and, if it was possible, thinner than she'd remembered. In many ways, he'd resembled the drug-addled version of himself from the day she'd tested him. Some of the anger had ebbed away. She'd froze in the doorway, silent as his eyes caught hers.

"You look…well," he'd said from the sofa, attempting to break the tension with something familiar for both of them.

"You look like shit," she'd retorted.

"I'm fairly certain that's not how this conversation is supposed to go."

"Oh really?" There was some of that fire again. "Please enlighten me, Mr. Holmes," she'd bitten out, arms crossing in front of her.

He'd slowly sat up with a grimace, graceless as she'd ever seen him. "You're angry with me." He'd stated it as fact. "You've avoided seeing me until now because of it, I suspect due to the misplaced notion that you'd interfere with my recovery. You're not only upset with what I've done to myself, but what my actions this time around have cost others. But more importantly, you're angry with yourself for still caring about me in spite of all those grievances."

The last point had caught her off-guard and her gaze had dropped to the floor. She'd shaken her head, willing away tears that pricked her eyes. Anger was easier. She'd sniffled once and asked if he'd be taking on cases now that he was home, not wanting to delve into the mess of emotions now in front of him.

He'd gone along with it, never breaking her gaze. "Yes, I imagine with John back I'll be able to pick up where I left off." Her heart had sunk. After all that time, she'd thought that they'd both felt something that day they'd gone on cases together. That for once, he'd felt something as she always had. That maybe it could be revisited now that she was unattached. She'd felt foolish for the umpteenth time when it came to Sherlock. She'd made some excuse as to why she had to leave and wished him well. As she'd turned around, his voice had halted her.

"Molly…I am sorry. For everything." She'd heard his sincerity.

She'd held on to the door jamb and sighed, eyes shut. "I know, Sherlock."

"And I am sorry your engagement's over."

She'd looked over her shoulder at him. "No…you're really not," she'd said simply and walked out. As she'd descended the stairs, she'd have sworn she'd heard him say, "Maybe, but I intend to make it right soon."

She'd had no idea what that was supposed to mean, but she'd been in no mood to turn around and demand answers either. That had been just shy of the holiday season, a time she'd typically busied herself with work anyway. She'd only seen Sherlock a handful of times over the next couple months, only in the lab, and always with John. He'd kept unnaturally quiet, only directing case-related matters at John, and what little he'd say to her would remain very cordial. It had been disconcerting to say the least. How this was "making it right" had been beyond her.

To say she had been surprised at the events that ended up taking place with Magnusson would have been an understatement. The details of what had led to it had come out among their small circle—Marys's past, Sherlock's deal and subsequent actions. She'd been in the dark regarding what was going to happen to Sherlock, her heart breaking over the possibilities. John had called her about a week later unexpectedly, telling her Sherlock was to be leaving the next day on a mission for MI-5 as part of his making amends for his actions. When John didn't know a return date, heart break had turned to devastation. She'd known what that meant and her composure only held until she'd hung up.

The stress had compounded the next day when Moriarty's face appeared on screens across the nation. Thankfully, that had been one item she hadn't had to worry over long. John had been kind enough to call her the next day to inform her that Sherlock's exile had abruptly ended to address the Moriarty situation. A week later, John rang again to say they'd solved it and Sherlock had returned to Baker Street that afternoon. Molly had been enormously relieved and elated at this development, despite the slight sting that John was the one telling her this and not the man himself. She'd tried to let it go, knowing that based on the last few months of interactions, she shouldn't have expected anything different. She'd gone to bed with a heavy heart, feeling defeated for the umpteenth time when it came to Sherlock.

She reflected on all of it when she woke up this morning to the same text from his first real day back over a year ago:

 _Come to Baker Street. Please. SH_


	2. Chapter 2

He'd known.

Well, perhaps not _immediately_ , but still, by the time he had returned from the dead, Sherlock had finally come to a rudimentary understanding with himself regarding the shy pathologist he'd left behind—he loved her.

It was terrifying.

It had not been a conclusion he'd readily arrived at, not with Mycroft's voice in his head providing commentary on how sentiment was a chemical defect and other such brotherly advice. He'd spent the majority of his life cultivating the persona of the cold, calculating machine, but as he'd stated so many times before, once you eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth. The first time he'd met her, he'd known he was in trouble, and as the years passed, he'd been proven correct. He'd found her attractive, found her skill and intelligence impressive—so of course, he'd hastily shut such ideas down with cutting deductions meant to keep her at a distance. That course of action had been more akin to 'pulling pigtails in the schoolyard' than he'd cared to admit, but he'd not been able to afford such distraction. That was what he'd told himself. All that mattered was the work. And yet, she'd still managed to secure a stronghold in him just by being her—caring, supportive, entirely unsuspecting Molly, who'd never judged him and accepted him exactly as he was.

While he had not been able to dwell on such inclinations frequently during his time away (running from thugs and repeatedly dodging gunfire will do that), there had been rare moments when his mind and body both got to rest and then…his thoughts would drift to those he'd left in London. John, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson, and even though she'd not been a target, Molly. And while he had greatly looked forward to reuniting with all of them, he'd come to acquiesce small changes would be made all around, but bigger ones were needed elsewhere, and that was with Molly.

His travels had stripped away much of the façade that Sherlock had built for himself over the years and left him uncomfortably human. He had fought it tooth and nail at first, not wishing to give in to _feelings_ and _sentiment_ , absolutely sure that both would lead to weakness he could not abide now. However, in the darker moments of his journey, he had found that allowing these things to wash over him actually provided him strength, gave him something to fight _for_. Yes, he had begrudgingly realized he _did_ miss people, he _did_ miss the companionship and he _did_ miss the support that these people back home so selflessly shared with him. It had been in these moments that Sherlock truly treasured their friendship and loathed himself for having taken it for granted for so long. Again, not something he had been able to dwell on in the midst of taking down a vast criminal network, but enough to have left an imprint on him that he had revisited when time allowed.

This version of Sherlock that craved companionship had attempted to halt that train of thought, citing it as merely being the product of extreme circumstances. But even he had known that wasn't entirely true. He had just been put in a position where forcibly pushing away those things and staying guarded were no longer the more attractive option. _Torture was certainly one way to gain perspective_ , he'd thought wryly after managing to escape some Russian brutes who'd kept him chained up and beaten for three days before he'd gotten out. He'd told himself if he got back—no, _when_ he got back—he'd try harder. He'd be a better friend to John Watson, he'd be more less dismissive with Mrs. Hudson, he'd attempt to remember Graham's name, and Molly…well, that was certainly something that would require further exploration in more ways than one.

He'd told her the truth that night, that she'd always counted and he'd always trusted her, and this time away gave him pause to discover how deeply that ran. There'd be no denying everything he'd been determinedly ignoring for years anymore. Sweet, shy, mousy little Molly had turned out to be so much stronger than he'd ever given her credit for, and the fact that it had been he that had brought it to the forefront…he had been humbled and as close as he could to being moved by it. Counting and trusting had apparently turned into genuine affection and caring at some point, as if something had swept through his mind palace where he kept her and hadn't bothered to inform him. She deserved so much, and he'd felt he could offer so little. He'd wanted to see her happy, though, and he'd surprised himself by vehemently wishing to be the one to do it. Despite his doubts about what he could give, Sherlock had always been a selfish man, and if all he could give was a little, he'd at least try because, oh God, he _wanted_ it.

So imagine his surprise when he'd returned and found her engaged.

He'd gone to Bart's that first night back after the attempted reunion with John. She'd been next on the list, the one he'd been almost as excited to see as John. He'd kept it brief in the locker room, reading her long shift and eagerness to get home in her body language, but he had also seen her genuine happiness in response to his materializing in her locker mirror. What he hadn't seen was the ring she wore on a chain around her neck—the fine gold chain was something that had always been present, but as he'd admitted to John on more than one occasion, he always missed something. In that case, it was the slight bulk of a ring underneath the collar of her jumper. He'd later deduced this as a work habit alone, keeping from having to continually remove her ring to wash her hands and fuss with the latex gloves she wore in the lab.

He'd known he would wait to share his new intentions with her until she wasn't occupied with work, so he had planned to invite her to Baker Street. A date, as surely John would call it (if he were speaking to him), and a term that had made him shudder, even if he still wanted to reap the benefits of it. A date with doing stuff and eating things, isn't that what normal people did? He had been nervous, feeling ridiculously out of his element when she arrived and knowing his behavior was slightly off-kilter. When he'd asked her to solve crimes with him, that was the moment of truth—he'd managed without an assistant before John, and he could certainly manage without one now, but he'd wanted her near him, wanted to share that with her. She'd shared so much of her pathology work with him and had always been eager to hear about his cases, so this had seemed like a logical starting point. When she'd spoken as he did, and both parties were met with confusion, he'd merely taken it in stride and asked again. He'd taken a step toward her, asked more softly, and she'd said yes.

It had thrilled him more than he'd been prepared for, and immediately set to work sharing details of different cases and clients he'd planned on going over that day. Molly was a smart woman, surely she'd understand what he was getting at without him having to go into that "date" nonsense. She'd listened intently, removing her coat and scarf and gloves and that's when he'd seen it—the ring. He'd faltered slightly in the middle of giving some details of a crime scene Lestrade wanted him to look at later, and she'd caught it, asking if he was okay. Immediately, some of that armor that had fled him while he was away rushed back, shielding him as he distanced himself from something he had not ready for in the least, and that had _hurt_. He could not let her see this, because even in that moment, he'd realized she _was_ happy—what he had wanted for her—just not with him.

The rest of the day had been a blur of clients and cases, and while he'd no longer been oblivious to her engagement, he'd allowed himself to be more friendly, almost playful with her even. He would not call it flirting, mostly because he hadn't wanted to and sounded juvenile, but it simultaneously had eased and enhanced the ache in his chest. He'd cast it aside and refocus on the work in front of him, but with Molly by his side, it had been a futile endeavor. He could have reverted back to his old ways. He could have just gotten a taxi without her as he'd done to John on countless occasions. But this new thing had already taken root inside him and even if he could not pursue her the way he'd wished, he'd at least enjoy this time with her. He'd even made excuses to extend it, inviting her for chips after the train client's flat, knowing full well what it sounded like.

He had barely been able to breathe in that hallway as the reality of what was unspoken dawned on both of them and settled. She had always been able to see him, he'd even resented it at one point, but that day he knew she'd seen what he couldn't say, couldn't act on. He'd left alone the fact that her ramblings had shown more fault than contentment in her relationship than she'd realized, but if this is what she'd thought made her happy, the very least he could do for Molly Hooper now was try to respect that.

He'd taken to going to the lab less frequently than he would've liked. Being confronted with the sham of a copy that was her fiancé had been as unpleasant as it was too real and he'd needed some distance. When he had gone to the lab, he'd remained polite, milder than he'd been in the past, and cognizant of the shift in their relationship. Gone was her stutter and hesitance with him, and he'd respected her more from the moment she'd killed him. They'd been more like equals and he'd acted accordingly. But in the wake of his fleeting hopes to be something more to Molly, he'd kept things relatively superficial. When he'd sought her out for assistance with John's stag night, it had seemed a safe enough topic to approach her with. Apparently not, as she'd still managed a "quite a lot of sex" comment that had been intended to fluster him. And it had, unfortunately, despite his efforts to appear unfazed. She'd still helped him even though he'd seen something was off. He'd deduced that she was actually irritated by his scarceness, hence the comment just to get a rise out of him. He'd simply not known what to do with that information—she wanted to see him more despite her engagement, but that would've meant having to engage with the dull ache that had formed in his heart months ago, and he had not been keen on doing so since there was no happy conclusion it could lead to. His one attempt had been to delete it and when that had failed, he'd acknowledged the serious problem this presented and chose to ignore it. Dive deeper into the work, that's what he'd always done. There was the addition of busying himself with assisting John and Mary in the wedding preparation, something he'd never had guessed he'd do, but it had provided an adequate distraction in trying to outrun certain thoughts that always came back to his pathologist.

After the Watson's wedding, he'd done exactly as before—dove back into the work. His duty performed, he'd realized that despite his friend's happiness, especially now with a baby on the way, he was startlingly lonely. That he could not abide. The Magnusson case had fallen into his lap just when he'd needed something to lose himself in, something to get away from this tangled and unfamiliar emotion business with. In the month after John's wedding, he'd acquired a fake girlfriend and a drug habit, all in the name of the case. And despite all of his efforts to drown out those unsavory feelings, over the course of one day, Sherlock had managed to get caught by his best friend in a drug den, face Molly's emotional (and to his surprise, physical) wrath, get fake engaged to break into an office, and discover Mary's assassin past as he got himself shot. In the process of dealing with the aftermath of the Mary revelation, he'd also helped create a rift in the Watson's marriage (not that he was happy or proud of this) and land himself back in surgery for having played fugitive after a major injury.

He'd successfully kept out of Molly's orbit that month, having pushed her and all the complicated things that came with thoughts of her to her locked room in his mind palace. But when he'd come face to face with her in the lab during his drug test, he'd seen it then—her broken engagement. He'd not deduced the details exactly, but it was enough to create a spark of hope within him, and unfortunately also enough to use against her to keep her at arm's length. It was not the time to revisit this avenue of thought, not yet anyway; Magnusson had to be dealt with first. Sherlock had been able to see the irony of the situation—all of his old habits being exposed just as he found out there may be a chance with Molly again. He'd counted on her being angry with him then; he hadn't expected her to be the first thing his mind conjured up to save him when he got shot.

In the aftermath, moving in and out of the haze of sedatives, he'd known exactly why. There'd be no more denying it, he'd pursue…something with Molly eventually, but after the Magnusson business. Which had been a long way off due to the additional recovery time required now, but he'd waited this long, and to protect her, it'd be worth it.

She hadn't come to see him until he'd gone home, and just the one time. She must've really been angry with him, not that he could've blamed her. John had moved back in at that point, but had gone to the shops when she'd come by. He'd heard her exchange with Mrs. Hudson when she came in, heard her come up the stairs and had done his damnedest to ignore the way his heart raced at the prospect of finally seeing her after months of nothing. When she'd appeared in the doorway, she'd looked no different than she always had—hair down, so not a work day, baggy clothes to hide a body she'd always been bafflingly ashamed of—but he'd known his perception of her had changed, and that made her light up in his mind. Still, he'd read her tamped down anger in her tense posture, had seen her shoulders relax slightly and her brow furrow as she took in the sight of him.

What he'd hoped to be an at least pleasant reunion with Molly had turned somewhat sour quickly. His attempts to keep things light had been met with staunch petulance, but he'd known it was not entirely uncalled for. He'd truly been happy to see her. He'd hoped to see her sooner, holding out that maybe she'd make exceptions for him as she always had and come see him in hospital…but she hadn't, and he'd had to square with that by himself.

He'd managed to upset her further, even without a cruel delivery of all the reasons she was mad at him. Even though it had been the last thing he'd wanted, it was for the best at the moment. If she held on to those conflicted feeling s that kept her at arm's length, all the better for moving along and finishing the case. That's why he'd played along when she ignored his statements. He'd known she'd wanted another chance as much as he did, even with all the things he'd managed to muck up. He'd chosen his reply about the cases very carefully, knowing just what buttons it would push for her, but doing exactly what he'd need it to. He'd fix it later. Right now, he'd maintain the distance to keep her safe from Magnusson's prying eyes. If there was one thing he knew about Molly Hooper, it was that she always gave Sherlock Holmes another chance.

Still, he'd apologized for everything, it had been the least he could do for the moment. He'd admitted to himself later he should've left the engagement comment out, especially since she'd caught him in a lie again, but he'd felt at the time it was the only tool he had to say he was sorry he was once again responsible for her being unhappy. He'd only mentioned the "making it right" bit as an afterthought, more for himself than anything, a reminder that this would all be over soon and he could give it his best go.

He'd purposely kept away from Bart's to the best of his ability. If he'd had to go see a body or perform some experiments, John was readily available those days and he'd make sure he was with him. Not that he'd required a chaperone, merely a buffer to maintain the Molly boundaries. He'd hated it. _Just a bit longer_ , he'd told himself. If he'd had to speak with her, he'd kept it brief and polite, noting her confusion and disappointment typically. Christmas had been right around the corner, and the Magnusson case would be gloriously done with then.

Unfortunately, that had become a much bigger problem than initially thought, one that led to an untimely, albeit brief, exile. Never would Sherlock have thought he'd be so grateful to a deceased consulting criminal, but it had been exactly what had gotten him off that plane and back into the empire's good graces. He'd not known if Molly even knew of his departure, but suspected John would probably tell her if he hadn't already. Mycroft had allowed the Watsons to see him off, refusing Sherlock's appeals to see her. He'd flatly stated that it would do neither of them any favors, and that Sherlock should've known better than to get himself involved with the banality of human emotion. When Sherlock had used his brother's own confession from Christmas against him, wherein he'd revealed how deeply he actually did care for his baby brother, Mycroft had the good sense to look conflicted and promised to keep a security detail on her.

He'd decided—deal with Moriarty now, the Molly situation after. She'd be safe with Mycroft's men watching her and knew she'd have the sense to at least change her locks. The case had been thankfully short, a mere week of intense detective work yielding a copycat. Dull. Obvious, even, but the British government was once again indebted to him, and as such, he'd quickly gotten his way back to Baker Street, so he couldn't be that put off when it came down to it.

When he awoke this morning, no consulting criminals lurking, no stomach-turning tycoons threatening anyone, no international cases looming…any other day he'd have called it boring. But today, he knew exactly what he wanted to do. Nothing so pedestrian as nerves would keep him now; he grabbed his mobile and sent off a text, one he knew would be well-remembered.

 _Come to Baker Street. Please. – SH_

He couldn't fault the racing of his heart as his mobile buzzed moments later if he'd tried.


	3. Chapter 3

It was a bit like déjà vu standing across from each other in his sitting room. So much had happened in the last year and the enormity of it hung between them, neither wanting to be the one to break the silence. Molly caved first.

"You're back." She immediately chastised herself for stating the obvious (which Sherlock previously would have done for her, but who knew anymore).

"It appears I am," he said, taking a step toward her, the glint in his eye making her breath catch.

"That was quick."

"Yes, well, apparently a pregnant ex-assassin in her last week of gestation is just as adept at giving deadlines as a criminal mastermind when it comes to getting her husband back to her."

Molly laughed despite herself. The knot of mixed emotions in her stomach loosened slightly, but there were still questions that needed answers. He looked conflicted to her, not quite happy but not totally distressed. He didn't seem the usual tightly wound spring waiting to be set off which struck her as odd at the least. Something was different, but he wasn't giving anything away. "Sherlock, why did you ask me here?" she quietly asked.

His brow furrowed in confusion. "You're not happy to see me?"

Exasperation and months of being stuck on a carousel of her own emotions began spilling out. "Of course I'm happy to see you, Sherlock! But you've looked through me for _months_ and ignored me after I thought we were finally something like equals and I tried to be okay with that since it was always how it was before, that maybe my being angry with you had been enough to push you back into old habits…" She wasn't yelling, but she _was_ rambling now. "But then you were sent off to your _death_! A real, actual death that I did _not_ help you fake and I was going to have to live with knowing the last real conversation we had was where I pushed you away!"

The anguish written over her features stabbed through him. _Oh God, she blamed herself_ , he thought. That's not what he'd wanted at all. He opened his mouth to reply, but he had nothing for once in his life.

"So yes, Sherlock, I am completely and utterly happy to see you, and relieved that you're alive." Her resolve threatened to break and much of the wind went out of her. "But why do you want to see me?"

She looked at him pointedly, waiting for any kind of response, saw the pain in his expression as he struggled and failed to start numerous sentences. He sighed heavily and hung his head, eyes closed.

"I wanted to ask you to solve crimes with me," he replied softly, looking somewhat sheepish.

" _What_?" The absolute absurdity of it hit her almost comically, part of her wanting to burst into laughter at the ridiculousness of his statement. Particularly after she'd gone off on him, and especially since she knew what he'd meant last time he'd asked, nevermind after the fact. That he was asking her now, after everything, mystified and enthralled her. She dared not assume anything, though, with this revelation.

He lifted his gaze to her, the open look she'd seen before returning. "I wanted to ask you to solve crimes with me," he repeated gently. He took in her puzzlement and smiled slightly, glad to see some of the annoyance draining from her.

"But… _why_?"

This might be harder than he'd anticipated. His usual defense mechanisms were trying to rear their heads, but he'd denied the dull throb in his chest long enough. This was finally the time. He would not back down now.

"Because…I've…missed you," he staggered out. She remained silent, seeming dumbstruck by his admission. For a moment, he feared he'd been wrong this whole time, that maybe she wouldn't forgive him, and he rushed to get the rest out. "And I, well, that is, I thought you did, too. Miss me. And that maybe we could…go through cases and speak with clients and get…something. To eat somewhere. Other people owe me favors, we could probably get whatever you fancy." He waved a hand dismissively as though to draw attention away from his awkwardness. The usual self-assured tone had run off, his face hot with embarrassment as he uncharacteristically babbled.

Molly's overall demeanor shifted as he spoke, a mix of joy and confusion washing over her. "But…Sherlock, you stayed away and I thought…"

"Yes, I know, and I'm sorry I let you think you'd ruined everything," he interrupted hurriedly. "But Molly, nothing could be further from the truth." He took another step toward her then. "I wanted to do all those things when I came back and when I realized too late that you were engaged, I knew I had to leave it alone. And after it ended, I couldn't do anything because of the Magnusson case." With another two steps toward her, he was in her personal space. He saw the shallow rise and fall of her chest, the accentuated pink of her cheeks, pupils dark. She was utterly lovely. "I couldn't risk letting him find out what you are to me. I had to keep you safe," he said in earnest. Hesitantly, he tucked a stray hair behind her ear and cradled her head, his thumb stroking her temple.

Molly cautiously turned into his touch, eyes fluttering shut. The gentleness of the gesture had her barely breathing. His honesty had blindsided her, his sheer proximity short-circuiting parts of her brain. He suddenly seemed so much taller than her and his presence an ever fiercer edge. At this closeness, she could feel the warmth emanating from his body; chocolate brown eyes stared up into piercing blue ones as her heart pounded n her chest.

She took a breath. "I'm not engaged anymore." Her brain would kick her later for sounding so inane.

A small smile graced his lips. "I know."

He descended on her lips then, her mouth molding easily to his. They lingered there for a few moments, sweetly pliant against each other. The bag Molly had been holding thumped to the floor as she brought her hands to either side of his face. To think this very nearly could never have happened suddenly hit her, and with it an increased sense of desperation despite him being right there with her. She nipped at his lower lip, her tongue tracing a line across demanding entrance—this was real, and she could have him now, sudden intensity be damned. His mouth parted for her as he wove one hand through her hair, the other braced on her hip.

Sherlock was briefly dizzied from the sensory overload. He'd gone from seeing and hearing to touching, smelling, and tasting faster than he had with another human being in a considerably long time and it was almost too much. Almost—his body still worked like any other man's, and physically responded as such. He yanked her flush to him by her hip and circled his arm around her waist.

She gasped and broke away as much from the abruptness of his movement as the realization that he was growing hard against abdomen. She was short of breath as she looked up into eyes that only retained a rim of blue around the edges. She noticed belatedly he was just as short of breath as she was, a tinge of pink coloring him. He looked panicked for a moment, as though he was afraid she would walk away from him now. Well, she would just have to put such ludicrous ideas out of his head. She pulled him back down to her, furiously sliding her mouth against his as she wound a hand through his curls. He responded in kind, jerkily turning them around so he could kick the door shut.

His hands pushed the jacket from her shoulders and ran down her back to cup her bottom. He grazed his teeth along her jaw and down her neck, pausing to suck a dark spot into the juncture at her shoulder. She whimpered slightly and pressed into him—he'd found a particularly sensitive spot that sent sparks of arousal down her.

"I missed you, too," she said more breathily than she'd intended. Not that she could do anything about it now if she'd wanted to. His answering "mmm" reverberated against her skin making her shiver in the most pleasant way. "I thought I'd never see you again."

He lifted his head from her clavicle to look at her then. "I know, and I am sorry. But," he nuzzled her ear with his nose and let his voice drop, "if it's all the same to you, I'd like very much to see you now."

She ground herself against him. "And, um…I get to see you, too?" she asked cheekily.

"Oh God, yes." He tugged his dressing gown off and let it fall to the floor. They both tried going at each other's buttons and zips at the same time, only a few successfully undone before frustration got the better of Sherlock. He grabbed Molly's hand and began pulling her toward the bedroom. She let out an undignified squeak, but let herself be pulled along.

Once in, he pushed her to the bed and they individually made short work of their clothes. Molly had gotten topless but was halted by the sight of a completely naked Sherlock and quickly forgot her trouser's zip. He was every bit as gorgeous as she thought he'd be. Smooth angles and lean muscle undercut pale skin peppered with the faded scars of his past. He stepped toward her, a mischievous glint in his eyes, and Molly broke out of her short reverie. Her eyes followed the sparse trail of hair down his torso to his erection, and unconsciously licked her lips.

"Next time," he said. He came to stand between her knees then and urged her back onto the bed. She huffed out a small laugh as he helped her shimmy out of her slacks and considerably damp knickers. "Laughter at this moment could easily be misconstrued, Miss Hooper," he said with no ill. He moved back up her body to her chest, planting random kisses across the expanse. His cock brushed against her thigh and his breath hitched. She heard this and reached down to grasp him, firmly stroking his thickness. Low, broken groans fell from him as he bucked into her hand. Part of him wanted to touch her everywhere at once while the other wanted to be pounding her into his mattress _. So much for being immune,_ he thought hazily.

"Just the prospect of there being a next time."

"Indeed." He sucked one dusky, upturned nipple into his mouth and she cried out in surprise, releasing him. "Many, many next times," he supplied, and returned to work. Any thought of responding fled her when he took her back in his mouth again, intermittently sucking and laving at the small bud. Molly moaned wantonly, arching into him more when he reached up to experimentally pinch the other nipple. He took the opportunity to slide both arms underneath her upper back to hold her to him, keeping her right where he wanted her under his mouth. She clutched at his shoulders as she rocked her wet center against his abdomen, desperate for more friction. He released her breast with an audible pop and moved to pay similar homage to the other one. "Not too small, fucking perfect," she vaguely heard him mutter into her skin as he held her fast before resuming his ministrations.

Her fingers scratched at him frantically, her whole body tense with desire and longing. He took mercy on her then and removed his arms from beneath her. He slowly began trailing kisses and nipping down her ribcage and stomach toward her neatly trimmed curls when he felt her tense again.

"Um, Sherlock, you don't have to, um…"

He stopped just shy of her mons and glanced up at her. "You don't enjoy oral stimulation?" Only he could make something sound clinical and sexy at the same time.

She couldn't believe she was having this conversation right then. "I do, it's just…you know, most men don't like it or aren't very good at it," she offered awkwardly.

"Nonsense," he punctuated with a rough suckle to her hip bone. She gasped and he slid lower, continuing his nibbling exploration on her thighs. "I've done some preliminary research as to technique, and beyond that, I am a _very_ quick study," he said scandalously. "I'm fairly certain I can observe and adjust to your liking accordingly. And given my extended period of abstinence, I'm afraid I may not last very long this time and I refuse to leave you high and dry, as it were." He glanced back up at her from her apex. "And furthermore, I _want_ to."

She relaxed and ached all over again when she saw the look of complete lustful adoration on his face. She bit her lip suppressing a knowing smile when something he'd said dawned on her. "Sherlock Holmes, did you watch porn?"

"Research," he corrected and licked a stripe up her slit. She cried out and automatically spread her legs wider in a silent plea to continue. Eye level with her glistening sex, he held her open to him, one hand on her inner thigh while one arm hooked under her other leg and parted her from above. He lightly flicked at her clit, gradually allowing firmer strokes of his tongue as breathy sighs and gasps escaped her. He alternated between tracing her sensitive nub and using the rough flat of his tongue on her. She rocked against him with abandon, wordlessly begging for more, hands gripping his sheets. With that, he reached the arm under her leg up to her breast and rolled her nipple between his fingers. He began sucking her clit while still tonguing her and he knew it wasn't long now. Her moans became louder and more frequent as she squirmed and writhed above him, her hips bucking off the bed. He followed her movements, mouth plastered to her core and relentlessly consuming her. Her thighs trembled and she clamped a hand onto his forearm, digging into the skin there. She was trapped under his hands and mouth, completely exposed and helpless to do anything but surrender to the deliciously sinful things he was doing to her. She chanced a glance down and the sight of him between her thighs doing such glorious things was perhaps the most devastatingly erotic thing she'd seen, she thought vaguely. With a final series of hard sucks, she came with a high-pitched wail, a string of curses in its wake.

His following never ceased until she gently pushed his head away. He couldn't remember being this painfully hard in his life. He wiped his mouth on the back of his arm as he made his way back up her body. She was panting heavily, her chest rising and falling rapidly. She watched him through half-lidded eyes as he leaned over to his nightstand to get a condom. She appreciated the unobstructed view of his marvelous backside and ran a hand down him.

"Wait, Sherlock," she started breathlessly. "I, um, I know we're both clean and I, uh, still have my IUD in from…before."

He grinned at her wickedly and tossed the foil package somewhere off the bed. "That's my girl," he all but growled at her. His mouth met hers in a frenzied kiss as he positioned himself between her legs. She felt the thick heat of him against her thigh and rocked her hips up in invitation. Bracing one arm on the side of her head, he reached down with his free hand to guide himself toward her beckoning wetness. One shallow stroke and he was inside her. A few more and he was seated fully within her. They gasped at the electrifying new sensations running through them and he paused to give her a moment to adjust. A few seconds later, she nodded her ascent and rocked against him again.

He began a slow pace, adrift in the thrall of her. He didn't remember the act ever feeling this good, whether due to deleting it or being unable to recall much right now. It didn't matter. She was all around him—slick, warm, and tight, and after so much lost time, it felt heavenly and fucking amazing and like coming _home_. He leaned down and slid one arm under her shoulders, his face in her neck as he sped up. She was keening with almost every thrust now, and a distant part of Sherlock's mind knew he'd do everything he could to keep her and keep those noises slipping freely from her for him alone. He was panting and groaning into her neck now, his hips forcibly snapping into her. The only sounds were their impassioned vocalizations and the slap of skin on skin. She clutched at his back and sobbed her pleasure as the first wave of her orgasm hit her. Her inner muscles clamped down on him and every muscle in his body corded taut, his jaw clenched as he felt the onslaught of his own end within reach. His movements quickened and stuttered, erratic and shallow, until he came with a roar ripped from the very middle of him.

They lay there interlocked still, panting against each other. She held him to her and he made no effort to move, what little energy he had applied to not putting his full weight on her. They stayed like that a few minutes longer as they caught their breath and their sweat-soaked bodies cooled. Molly absently stroked his back and carded her fingers through his hair, not wanting to break the spell for either of them. Eventually, he rolled to her side and pulled her to him, haphazardly tugging a sheet over both of them. She pillowed her head on his shoulder with one arm flung over his stomach. Twenty-four hours ago she never could have guessed this is where she'd be.

He hugged her to him protectively, and felt confident he wasn't the only one more content than he'd been in a long time. She looked happy and positively sated in the afterglow—she was beautiful. A surge of masculine pride ran through him knowing he was responsible for that, the feeling only growing when he thought of all the wonderful noises she had made that he'd have to coax out of her again soon.

Molly was the first to break the silence again. "Pretty good for a man who hinted at a wanting a freebie his first time back," she jokingly cracked.

He chuckled and briefly tightened his grip on her. "I don't recall hearing any complaints, and I believe I made doubly good on my promise," he said smugly.

"Yes, well, I'm sure it helped that I've probably never been that thoroughly switched on," she said with humor, not wanting to inflate his ego any more but having to give credit where it was due.

"Well, I guess we'll just have to experiment with that some more in the future, won't we?" He smiled down at her, the calm aftermath softening his features. She beamed at him, pulling his head down for a mellow kiss.

Despite the sunlight coming through the window, Molly suddenly had to stifle a yawn, the events of the morning catching up with her. "I don't know how much help I'll be with clients today now," she said.

"Oh, there aren't any clients coming in today," he offered plainly.

"What? I thought you said you wanted me to solve crimes with you today." Her tone conveyed her confusion.

"No, no, I was just asking in general. Like from here on out. I didn't mean today specifically." She rolled her eyes and playfully swatted at him. "Besides, I think the day is working out just fine, don't you?"

She had to concede that. "It is. So…is it safe to say that you won't be solving crimes with anyone else in the near future?" she asked hesitantly, some of her old self-doubt creeping up on her.

"Well, I can't promise I won't enlist John if you're busy with work and he's available," he began. "But don't worry, despite the rumors and any gossip Mrs. Hudson propagates, we will most certainly not be doing this." He gestured to them on the bed.

He would tell her all those things he wanted to say another time, not so far away—that he did think her beautiful, that being by her side felt like home, that he loved her. It might be difficult, but he would do it, he knew, because they both deserved to have those things be known after such a long wait. For now, it was enough to hear her giggle and feel her lithe body against him before noon in his own bed. This could be a very good addition to actual crime solving, indeed.


End file.
